Oblivious
by big tears
Summary: Brooding never was very pleasant. One-shot on Ginny's obsession with Harry.


**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**A/N:** This one-shot is based on my feelings towards someone... If you flame it, I'll be really sad.

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He didn't realize she was watching him. He was too busy chatting with his _friends_, smiling and making them laugh... She, however, sat a few feet away in obscurity, her brown eyes focused on his face. His dark hair, sparkling eyes, those unnervingly straight white teeth... She was positive that he was the most attractive man alive, and a joyful feeling rose in her stomach every time she saw him.

  
So why did she always feel so angry?

  
She hated the lot of them. The boys who would grin at him, marveling how brave and _talented_ he was, and who went to bed every night with the prayer to be more like him. The girls who fawned over him, running their seductive fingers along his chest and shoulders - playfully, of course, because it was all a game to them - as they whispered dirty jokes in his ears. He would readjust his glasses, and smile his mischevious smile, lighting his face with a sudden idea for another comedy act to put on (he impersonated many people nowadays). Her mind would take a vacation even while he was smiling at someone else.

  
So what would happen if he ever smiled at _her_?

  
He had noticed her once: one day when the boys were practicing Quidditch and the girls were all gossiping as they painted each others nails. She had been sitting out on the lawn - the same way she was now - trying not to look too bored, when a voice from behind her said,

  
"What are you doing out here all by yourself?" She had turned to see him, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his pants as he looked down his nose at her. His eyes were gleaming brightly, and he sat next to her on the ground when she failed to answer his question.

  
Silence. "So," she began, her voice cracking nervously. "er... how are you today?"

  
"I'm great," he replied, turning from the general direction of his peers to face her. "I'm great, yeah..."

  
"That's good," she smiled. She pulled a strand of hair that had been hanging in front of her face and began twisting it around her fingers, trying desperately not to become overly excited at the prospect of their 'conversation'. He had never really talked to _her_ before. If she was in the group he was entertaining at the moment, then he might wink at her sometimes, but other than that she was nothing more to him than a blade of grass in a far-off country. Like Switzerland.

  
"Well," he sighed, furrowing his eyebrows. "I'd, er... I'd better be going. It was, er, nice talking to you."

  
Her heart stopped. He was leaving... 

  
"Bye, then," she muttered, biting her bottom lip to keep from saying something stupid - although shouting "I love you, you prat!" had sounded good in her head. One of her many problems with this infatuation, however, was that she refused to entertain any irrational notion. She was, after all, a very practical girl.

  
A very practical, very _stupid_ girl.

  
Her fists clenched as her eyes followed his activities: his various flamboyant flirtations with girls and ideas, the heart-wrenching expressions on his smooth face, the way he held himself with such confidence around so many expectant people. It was amazing to her that he could make them pay attention to him without acting like an idiot. He didn't trip whilst approaching someone, he didn't stutter when telling a story... She loved him all the more for it.

  
So why did she want to hurt him so badly? So why did she want to see his world ripped to shreds, to watch him lose everything? So why did this unnatural feeling of vindictivity and hate spread to the only man she had ever adored? Her stomach churned as he turned to go back inside with his many, _many_ friends.

  
He was so blasted oblivious to _everything_. 

  
And yet, she loved that about him, too.

  
He could live his life without having to know.

  
Too bad she couldn't live hers without him knowing.

  



End file.
